After Dinner Aftermath
by englishtutor
Summary: In which Mary learns to cope with John's PTSD, with Sherlock's tutorage. A sequel to "John and Mary Go Out to Dinner" with a flashback to "One to Spare." If you have not read these stories, I recommend doing so.
1. Chapter 1

This story takes place immediately following my story "John and Mary Go Out to Dinner". There is also a reference "One to Spare" in the flashback.

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She had never been kidnapped before and was unsure of how she was to react to the experience. Home at last after John and Sherlock's daring rescue of her, Mary tried to eat her dinner with the nonchalance that she believed would be the proper response to her ordeal. In truth, in spite of the threat of the gunman to shoot her, the blows she's endured to her face, and the rope burns on her arms and legs, the only part of her arduous day that lingered in her mind was the terror of knowing John had been in danger because of her. That, and the grievous knowledge that he had been forced to kill a man to save her.

When he and Sherlock had kicked in the door of the restaurant pantry and found her, tied to a chair with a gun to her temple, John had been completely cool-headed and controlled and his hands as steady as a rock. After it was all over, he still had remained calm, comforting her, checking her out and treating her injuries. But now they were home; the adrenaline that had kept them all going all that long day was wearing off, leaving them limp with exhaustion and allowing their bodies to react at last to the horror of what had nearly happened to them. Sherlock dealt with the situation by shutting down, sitting in complete quiet without moving a muscle. John, on the other hand, was busying himself with tasks, constantly moving around the flat. His limp had returned, and she noticed with grief that the tremor in his left hand was growing increasingly evident. Mary noted Sherlock watching John surreptitiously through slitted eyes.

"I'm making more tea," John announced, taking his jittery self into the kitchen to perform yet another unnecessary task. When he was out of sight, Mary went to Sherlock's chair and crouched down beside him.

"This is what you were warning me of, that day you told me about his condition," she murmured, and Sherlock nodded. She sighed. "This is my fault. He shot that man because of me."

"No." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at her. "You didn't ask to be kidnapped. Lay the blame at the kidnapper's door. As for John, he knows he did the right thing, and he will reconcile himself to it eventually as he always does. Just be prepared—tonight will be a danger night."

Mary took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. "Yes, I know. I'm glad you're here, Sweetheart." She knew the detective would spend the night with them, as he always did after a particularly violent case. It was an unspoken agreement between the two men that they stay within shouting distance of each other for a time after a close call. Mary was now naturally included in this arrangement and was grateful for it. It was important to her, as well, to know that both her boys were near and safe at times like this.

Even so, she had never yet experienced John's PTSD symptoms first-hand. Although close calls abounded in their line of work, John had not been in the position of having to use deadly force on a case since he and Mary had begun to see each other. But now, after seven months of marriage, it seemed she was being initiated into this aspect of his life at last.

She went into the kitchen, careful to make her presence known so as not to startle her husband, and put her arms around him. "I'm going to take a shower, Captain. I smell like a restaurant and that monster's after-shave. I wonder if I'll ever feel clean again!" she joked gently.

He nodded, looking at her with worried eyes. "It will help you relax and ease the ache in your muscles," he agreed. "You must feel stiff as a post after being tied in one position most of the day. Take your time, love, and call me if you need me."

She kissed him and went into the bedroom to carefully peel off her clothes and step in to the warm spray. The water hurt her raw wrists and ankles and made her cut lip sting, but it felt good on her bruises and aching muscles and joints. She sighed and gave herself up to the feeling for a moment, and to the remarkable knowledge of being so cherished and cared for. John and Sherlock, with Greg and Mycroft's help, had torn the city apart that day looking for her; and they had both been willing to give up their lives to save hers. Never in her young life had she been loved so well, and she did not take it lightly.

But now her mind turned back to nine months earlier, when Sherlock had first told her of John's affliction.

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It was the morning after John had proposed to her. They had spent all that night dancing and talking about the future, and much of that talk had centered on Sherlock. They were both determined to assure the detective that John would continue to work with him as usual and that his life would be disrupted as little as possible. And so, when John had been called into work that morning, it seemed natural for Mary to go to Sherlock's flat and tell him of their decisions.

She had cooked breakfast and they had eaten together and talked quite pleasantly all morning. And then, as she was preparing to leave, Sherlock had said, "Mary, may I be frank?"

"I hope you'll always be frank with me, Sherlock," Mary had replied earnestly.

He had escorted her to the sofa and sat beside her, looking as uncertain as she'd ever seen him. After all, he'd really only known her a few months, and while she knew he liked her well enough and they got on quite well, they were hardly confidants as yet.

"You know, I suppose, that John suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder," he began slowly.

She nodded. "He's told me as much, but I've never seen any symptoms of it at all. He told me it presents with phantom pain to his old shrapnel wounds in his leg and a tremor in his left hand, a result of nerve damage from being shot in the shoulder."

Sherlock's mouth hung open in surprise. "Wait, shrapnel wounds?" he demanded impatiently. "He never told me he'd taken shrapnel in his leg. He admitted his limp was psychosomatic."

"Well, it was, rather," Mary smiled at his confusion. "It's well-healed up and there's no physical reason for pain or for a limp anymore."

"But," Sherlock seemed stuck on this point. "But, he never said. . . . Are you sure?"

Her dimples deepened in amusement. "Quite sure. I've seen the scars myself. Upper right thigh."

"Hmm." He frowned, hating to be wrong even in the smallest point. "There's always something. Ah, well, that's hardly the point, though, it is?" He turned his remarkable gaze upon her seriously and studied her for a moment. She endured it, knowing that he needed to process things in his own way.

"You and John are determined, then, to continue this relationship?" he said at last.

"Until death do us part," Mary smiled gently. She so wanted to reassure him that all would be well.

"All right, then, assuming that is true, I feel it only right and proper that you should be fully informed about John's condition. Unlike most persons with PTSD, John's isn't triggered by danger or stress. What brings on the symptoms are feelings of uselessness or purposelessness. That is why you have never seen it manifested. He feels quite useful and purposeful working with me."

Mary agreed enthusiastically. "Yes, he's told me as much. We're both quite thankful for you, Sweetheart," she assured him.

"But there's more," he went on. "When events occur in which his only recourse is to resort to deadly force, it triggers nightmares. No, night terrors would be a more appropriate term. I first experienced this the night he moved in, the night he shot the cabbie to save my life. He woke me up with his shouting, and I was unable to rouse him out of that state for some time."

"That's all right, I can endure a bit of shouting and tossing about," Mary began, but Sherlock was not finished and held up an imperious hand.

"Mary, I've told you that John is one of the most dangerous men you've ever met," he reminded her soberly. "He is every bit as dangerous when he's asleep as he is when he is awake." The detective looked her over carefully and nodded to himself. "You are a small person. He could easily snap your neck without ever being aware of what he was doing."

She gaped at him as she realized what he was saying. "You know this from experience, don't you? He hurt you when you tried to wake him from his dream. Oh, how dreadful! He must have felt wretched when he woke up and realized what he'd done to you!"

If Sherlock noticed that all Mary's sympathies seemed to be with John and not with John's victim, he didn't seem to resent it. In fact, if anything, he seemed to agree with her sentiments. "I never told him. He had me in a choke hold, but I managed to get out of it without too much damage to myself or to him. By the time he was himself again, I was recovered and able to hide the bruises. It helps to always wear a scarf, you know."

Mary was stunned. "You never told him? Sherlock, he throttles people in his sleep. Isn't that something he should be made aware of?"

"Why?" Sherlock looked honestly confounded. "It would only serve to make him feel needless guilt and to lose sleep, which he apparently needs. Knowing about it won't help him to stop." He thought a moment, then continued. "He is aware of this condition enough to entrust his weapon to me on danger nights. He just doesn't realize the full extent of his nocturnal behavior."

"But, Sherlock, what if he'd harmed someone else? He would have felt horrible about it!" Mary, exasperated, insisted. "How could you never tell him?"

"You misunderstand," he replied calmly. "The night terrors only occur after John has been forced to cause someone's death to save someone else's life. Obviously, this is not a frequent state of affairs. I mean really, Mary, how many people do you think John has killed in the past few years? On the extremely rare occasions it has been necessary to take precautions, I've always found it easy to control events to ensure that I be present and awake."

She sighed, "You're right, of course. You're a good friend, Sherlock. Thank you for looking after him." She smiled at him affectionately. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Actually, speaking of sleep, he seems to require an inordinate amount: five or six hours a night, sometimes more. And he eats constantly, two or three, or even four times a day. It's like living with an infant sometimes," Sherlock complained.

When Mary was able to stop laughing, she gasped out, "I'm sure I can cope with that! Oh, Sherlock, you're a wonder! You put up with all of John's little foibles with such grace. You know, most people would object to their flatmate trying to kill them, but you just brush it off as if it were nothing!"

"He's not boring," Sherlock explained, smirking. "And apparently we are two of kind, then, as I can see that you have no intention of breaking your engagement to him, even though I've just explained to you that you're taking your life in your hands every time you sleep with him."

Mary smirked right back. "You're quite right. He isn't boring. I can't bear boring people," she grinned.

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And so now she stepped out of the shower and gingerly dried herself off, trying to avoid aggravating the bruises and abraded areas, and pulled on loose pajamas and her dressing gown. She was so tired she could hardly move. It had been such a very long day.

"I'm having a last cuppa and heading to bed," she announced to her boys as she re-entered the sitting room. They had been sitting in companionable silence, sipping their own tea, and she filled her cup and joined them, staring into the fire. It was amazing to think that only that morning she had been taken at gun point and threatened with death. Now she felt entirely at peace, the cup warming her hands, her husband alive and at her side, their best friend stretched out on the couch in restful repose. Her life was perfect; completely worth the occasional kidnapping.

Eventually John took himself off to get ready for bed, and Mary roused herself to gather bedding for Sherlock to kip on the couch. He disliked their guest room, insisting the couch was more to his liking, and so she brought him some blankets and a pillow and proceeded to make him comfortable.

"Remember what I told you, Mary," he intoned seriously. "And if anything happens, you can call me; or if you cannot breathe, bang on the wall and I'll be right there."

"I will," she promised, just as John re-entered the room, his service weapon in hand. Sherlock held out an expectant palm, and John relinquished the gun with a willingness that would have astonished Mary under any other circumstances.

"Good-night, Sweetheart." She kissed Sherlock's cheek and swept off to bed at last, ready to face whatever might come.


	2. Chapter 2

He had changed into night-clothes and had brushed his teeth, but could not seem to stop moving. Mary watched him from where she was snuggled in bed and sighed.

"It's very cold," she hinted suggestively.

John stopped his pacing and looked at her with concern. "Shall I get another blanket, love?"

"I don't want another blanket, Captain. I want you to come to bed," Mary chuckled. "Not much at taking a hint, are you?"

John faked a long-suffering sigh. "If you insist." He slid beneath the duvet and she curled up against him, shivering. He drew her into his arms and held her close. "I'm aware you're just using me as an alternative heating source," he murmured into her hair.

"Of course," she teased. "That's why I married you, you know. To keep me warm at night."

"Hmm. Just yesterday, I remember you said you married me because I'm impossibly cute." She could feel his cheek move in a smile against her head.

"Don't be ridiculous, darling," she whispered ardently in his ear. "How could cuteness be of any practical use against hypothermia?"

He laughed quietly and hugged her tightly. "What would I do without you? Mary, if anything had happened to you today, I . . . ."

"Don't think about it." She lifted her face up to look at him. "We both had a horrible scare today, but we're all right now." They lost themselves in a lingering kiss.

"I'll likely dream tonight," he told her, cradling her head in one strong hand against his shoulder. "You've never had to deal with my PTSD dreams before. Perhaps I should sleep in the guest room."

"No!" she cried, a bit too fast, unable to endure the thought of being left alone. "I need you here tonight, where I can feel you. I spent the entire day terrified you would get yourself killed trying to rescue me. Anyway, I'm not afraid of your dreams."

"You're not afraid of much, are you? You're the bravest person I've ever met," John told her, then admitted, "I was living in a nightmare all day, thinking of what might be happening to you. I don't believe I could sleep either, without you here."

"Well then, that's settled." Mary kissed him again. "Let's try to sleep a bit. I'm exhausted, and I know you must be, as well."

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She awoke in John's bed back in Baker Street. Alone. How had it happened? The room was frigid and yet also stuffy, as if it had been long-deserted. She gathered the blanket around herself for warmth and tiptoed toward the stairs. "Captain?" she whispered hopefully, nearly faint with dread. The silence lay heavy upon the house, stifling every sound. Her breath came in short, painful pants, her breath frosty in the icy air.

Downstairs, the familiar sitting room was cold and dark and smelled of must. No one had lived here in very long time, according to the eloquent dust that covered every surface. "Captain?" she called, louder this time. Her voice fell dead to the floor. The flat was clearly devoid of all life, and a sense of desolation swept over her, a mantle of despair. She moved stealthily to Sherlock's bedroom and peered in. "Sherlock? Are you there?" she called, quavering, knowing there would be no reply.

She rushed back into the kitchen, and now the pressing weight of loss turned to terror. "John! Where are you? Why aren't you here?" she cried desperately. "John! Please!" Her breath hitched in a sob, and she dropped into a chair and knew she was alone. Entirely, completely, eternally alone. "Please don't be gone," she gasped, too devastated to weep.

A sudden warmth enveloped her and she heard his voice speak gently in her ear. "I'm here, love. It's okay, I'm here." And then she was truly awake and in her own bed, and John was there, holding her and murmuring comfort to her. She hid her face in his chest and breathed in the familiar, reassuring scent. Now she could cry in earnest.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said at last. He squeezed her tightly in answer.

"I hadn't fallen asleep yet. Too keyed up, I guess," he admitted. "You haven't had that dream in a long time, have you? The one where everyone disappears."

She drew a shuddering breath. It was like him to know that this was what her dream was about, rather than assuming she was reliving her kidnapping experience of that day. "No surprise, having it tonight, after I almost lost you. Again."

"You won't lose me. I promise I'll never leave you," he assured her. She knew he meant it sincerely. But she couldn't help but think that, if he had been unable to find her that day- if he had decided to give in to the kidnappers' demands and surrender himself to them- she might very well be mourning him tonight instead of clinging to him as if she were drowning.

Eventually her racing heart slowed to a normal pace and she was able to relax against him, listening to him breathe. Now their roles were reversed, with John peacefully asleep at last and herself wakeful, soaking in his warm, solid presence, full of gratitude for his existence.

As an hour crept by, however, he grew more and more restless. At last she disentangled herself from his embrace, preparing for what surely was to come. "Remember what I told you," Sherlock had said, and she did remember. "Don't touch him. Don't speak to him. Avoid making any sudden noises or movements that might startle him. Even when he sits up with his eyes open, wait! He will still not be fully conscious."

It was harder than she had imagined, not touching him. She longed so much to comfort him both with her body and her words, as he tossed about, moaning and muttering, lost in his nightmare. She drew as far from him as she could manage without falling out of bed, staying out of the way of his flailing arms. He was fighting with his dreams, and it was horrifying to watch. She held her breath and tried to be still as stone so as not to startle him. An almost imperceptible creak told her that Sherlock was at the bedroom door, keeping watch over them both, silent as a guardian angel. She felt him there but did not turn to look at him. How strange it was to know he was standing by to protect her from her own husband, and to protect John from himself.

John's groans gave way to agonized shouting, and then suddenly one fist connected with her shoulder, knocking her sprawling to the floor. She gasped, but managed not to cry out, rubbing the new bruise which joined her already impressive collection of contusions. She heard Sherlock whisper, "Stay down!" But she did not need him to inform her of the wisdom of keeping out of the way of a possible follow-through. "Next time, I'll know not to try to stay in bed," she thought ruefully.

Then with a final, heart-rending cry, John sat straight up, gasping for breath. She peered over the side of the mattress at him and stifled a sob. His eyes were wide and wild with grief, his face a study in horror, his chest heaved with emotion; and he whimpered her name in a broken, hollow voice. How she longed to hold him close and reassure him, as he had done for her only a short time before. But it would be of no lasting comfort to him to awaken to a throttled wife. She could not imagine what it would do to him to know he had harmed her in his sleep.

At last, he seemed to truly come to himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and covering his head in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. Mary glanced back at the doorway, and Sherlock nodded and then disappeared. Carefully, she crawled back into bed and cautiously approached him.

"Captain," she murmured. "Captain, it's all right. I'm here." She tentatively stroked his hair. Yes, he was well and truly awake. So at last, she dared to wrap her arms around him and nuzzled her face against his ear. He sat still as stone, unable to respond. "Come back to me, Captain," she said quietly but firmly. "That's an order."

He drew a sudden long, shuddering breath and lifted his head. "Mary? Are you okay?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Of course, darling. I'm always okay when you're with me," she said lightly, smiling through her tears. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Just reliving the day," he said softly. "Only it ended quite differently."

"Live in the truth, Captain," she encouraged him. "You found me in time. You saved me. You're my hero."

He unfolded himself then and they clung to each other. "I only found you because you were clever enough to give me a clue they couldn't decipher," he told her admiringly. "You saved yourself."

"We worked together. We're quite a team," Mary told him.

John pulled a long breath and let it out slowly, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. They remained that way for a long time, getting used to the idea that the day was truly behind them. Then he moved to get out of bed. "I'm going to get cleaned up," he said thickly.

"Good idea, Captain. I'll make you a cuppa, shall I?" She pulled on her dressing gown and watched him until he disappeared into the bathroom. Then she walked on shaking legs into the sitting room, where Sherlock sat bolt upright on the sofa, waiting for her.

"Are you all right?" he asked with some concern. He's seen the blow she'd taken, and was quite familiar with John's right hook.

"It's fine," she said dismissively. "And he'll never know about it, will he? We're having tea; would you like a cuppa?"

"Certainly," he agreed, and followed her into the kitchen.

As she busied herself with the kettle, Mary pushed back a sob and softly observed, "It must be dreadful, to know you've taken a life. It's no wonder he has such nightmares."

Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. "I don't believe you truly understand the content of his dreams, Mary," he told her. "John is a soldier. He doesn't enjoy killing people, but he understands it's part of his job. He regrets it when it becomes necessary, but it doesn't horrify him or cause him to lose sleep."

Mary looked at the detective in wonder. "What are you saying?" she asked.

"He isn't reliving pulling the trigger, Mary. He's living through the nightmare of what might have happened had he missed his shot."

Mary's breath caught, the full import of his words flooding through her.

"If his aim had been the least bit off, he might have shot you accidentally. Or he might have missed his target and the kidnapper would have shot you himself. Either way, he loses you, and it's entirely his own fault."

"Good lord," she cried in a low voice. "I never even considered that he could miss."

"Of course not. You have complete faith in him and in his abilities, as do I. But he does not." Sherlock took the now screaming kettle from the stove and poured the steaming water into the teapot. "That's his greatest fear—failing to protect those he cares about: the ultimate type of uselessness. I should have thought you'd know that, Mary."

Mary considered Sherlock's words as she followed him into the sitting room with the tray. "You're quite right, of course. I did know it." She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Sweetheart. You're a good friend to us."

"I know," Sherlock said.


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